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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23396632">call and response</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate'>badtemperedchocolate</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, The importance of communication, but I'm not NOT saying it, look I'm not saying this is a bootycall fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:07:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23396632</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"What are you wearing?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brad Leone &amp; Claire Saffitz, Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>150</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>call and response</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this fic goes out to 40millionyears for just overall being excellent. thanks, fren. you know why.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Always pick up the phone."</p><p>– Brad Leone</p><p> </p><p> <br/>It’s Friday night. Tonight’s a good night.</p><p>Brad’s working on a truly beautiful thing.</p><p>It’s a gorgeous maple table with intricate spindle legs, a flawless wood grain top, and really amazing hand-carved vines and leaves around the apron.</p><p>He’s got her all nice and sanded and smoothed, and he’s trying to decide exactly which stain is gonna work best with the grain, when suddenly his phone rings.</p><p>So Brad wipes the sawdust off his hands and reaches for his phone. It’s Claire.</p><p>He’s already grinning when he answers. “Heya, Claire. What’s up?”</p><p>“<em>What are you wearing?”</em></p><p>Well, <em>that</em> just stops him short.</p><p>“Uh – Claire?”</p><p>She giggles a little into her phone. “<em>I’m a little gin-drunk</em>.”</p><p>Oh, fucking <em>hell</em>.</p><p>“Right.” Brad clears his throat. “Ain’t that kinda girl, Saffitz.”</p><p>She still sounds like she’s giggling. As giggly as she gets when she’s slap-happy, Brad knows, Claire’s a complete mess when she’s drunk. “<em>Oh, sure you’re not.”</em></p><p>Brad groans internally, because he’s self-aware enough to admit, inside his mind, that when it comes to Claire Saffitz, he is absolutely, one hundred percent that kinda girl. “You need something?”</p><p>“<em>I just wanted to hear your voice.”</em></p><p>“You – Claire –”</p><p>“<em>What?”</em> He can hear the pout in her voice, see it perfectly in his mind’s eye. <em>“I like talking to you. Isn’t that okay?”</em></p><p>“Of course it’s okay, Claire, just –”</p><p>“<em>You like me, don’t you?”</em></p><p>She’s going to be the death of him. Brad grits his teeth. “You know I do.”</p><p>“<em>How much?”</em></p><p>“Claire –” He sighs, dropping heavily onto his woodworking stool. “What is this?”</p><p>“<em>I miss you.</em>”</p><p>Oh, shit. He knows that tone. She’s thinking. She knows he’s listening, and she wants something, and she knows perfectly well that Brad just can’t say <em>No</em> to her.</p><p>Maybe if he steers her away from it? Maybe he can do that. She’s drunk, after all. “Aww, c’mon, Claire. Just saw you, like, the whole day.”</p><p>“<em>But I want to see you </em>more.”</p><p>Even drunk, Claire’s not distracted.</p><p>Brad takes a deep breath. “This a booty call, Claire?”</p><p>“<em>Do you want it to be?”</em></p><p>Yes. Yes. Oh <em>fuck</em> yes. But no way in hell –</p><p>“Not if you’re drunk.”</p><p> “<em>It’s easier when I’m not sober.”</em></p><p>“Well, that’s the problem, ain’t it?”</p><p>She grumbles, a little hint of that cute irritated groan he always hears across the kitchen when she’s frustrated. Except right now she’s grumbling because he won’t come over to Manhattan and fuck her brains out, and that realization makes him hot and tight and a little too tempted to say <em>Never mind, I’m on the way</em>.</p><p>“What d’you want me to say, Claire?”</p><p>He can hear the sigh she gives. “<em>I want you to come over</em>.”</p><p>“And I ain’t doin’ that if you’re drunk,” he tells her, tossing his hat aside, burying one hand in his hair, tugging like somehow he’s going to get rid of all this excess frustration.</p><p>(Just…not the way he <em>wants</em> to.)</p><p>“<em>What about tomorrow?”</em></p><p>“Tomorrow, huh?” His heart is bursting in his chest, like there’s pressure building up and he’s gotta figure out how to breathe or he’s just gonna end up in a million fucking pieces on his workshop floor. “You gotta ask me when you’re sober, okay?”</p><p>“<em>You promise you’ll say yes?”</em></p><p>As if there’s any world in which he wouldn’t.</p><p>“Claire, you call me stone sober and ask the same thing, I’ll fuckin’ <em>swim</em> across the river to there.”</p><p>“<em>Promise?”</em></p><p>“Cross my fuckin’ heart, Claire.”</p><p>She lets out a little huff. It’s cute. Even over the phone, when he can’t even see her, she’s so <em>cute</em>. It’s ruining him. “<em>Fine. </em>Fine, <em>okay?”</em></p><p>“Get some rest.”</p><p>Claire sighs noisily. “<em>Fine.”</em></p><p>“Drink some water, yeah?”</p><p>“<em>I will.” </em>His assurance must have satisfied her, because suddenly her voice brightens. “<em>You know, you never told me what you’re wearing.”</em></p><p>“T-shirt and jeans, Claire.”</p><p>“<em>But no underwear, right?”</em></p><p>(She’s going to kill him.)</p><p>“Good <em>night</em>, Claire.”</p><hr/><p>Claire’s not a morning person on the best of days, so Brad waits until ten the next morning to call her.</p><p>She still answers with a groan. “<em>Uggghhh.”</em></p><p>“Hungover, Half-Sour?”</p><p>“<em>Please kill me</em>.”</p><p>“C’mon, Claire.”</p><p>She grumbles through the phone. Oh, Claire. Brad can’t stop himself from chuckling. Claire is always <em>Claire</em>. Once, back when she started working at Bon Appetit, she got drunker than she probably meant to during dinner out with the test kitchen crew, and Brad had offered to make sure she got home safely. She’d spent the entire subway ride apologizing. Then the next morning, he’d called to check up on her, and the first words out of her mouth were <em>Oh fuck, just – just fuck, Brad.</em></p><p>And yes, it was adorable then, too. Even before she was calling to ask him what he was wearing.</p><p>“So how ya feeling today?”</p><p>“<em>A little embarrassed</em>,” she admits.</p><p>“Why’re you embarrassed?” he asks warmly. “You didn’t jump up and dance on any tables, did ya?”</p><p>“<em>Brad –</em>”</p><p>“Look, Claire.” He decides to throw her a bone. It must have taken a lot for her to break down and call him like that. And not just the alcohol. “If you’re feelin’ weird, or embarrassed, or whatever – you really shouldn’t.”</p><p>“<em>Really?</em>”</p><p>“Really.” If Drunk Claire’s gonna be honest, Sober Brad’s gonna do her the same courtesy. “I meant what I said, y’know. Long as you’re in your normal mind, you call me? I’m there.”</p><p>There’s a long pause. When she finally answers, her voice is small. Smaller than he’s used to from her, and that feels wrong. Claire’s a lot of things, but <em>timid</em> ain’t usually something he thinks of her. <em>“So – if – if I call you later?”</em></p><p>“Grabbin’ my fuckin’ flippers, Claire.”</p><hr/><p>Claire may or may not be slightly panicked when she calls Molly that afternoon.</p><p>It’s not her finest moment.</p><p>“First of all, you have to promise not to tell anyone about this.”</p><p>“<em>Jeez, Claire, I promise.”</em> Molly sounds slightly bemused. “<em>Is something on fire?”</em></p><p>Claire tucks her phone against her ear and starts nervous-organizing her already perfectly-organized spice drawer. “I, um, got a little drunk last night, and I called Brad –”</p><p>“<em>Claire?”</em></p><p>“- and I tried to get him to come over, and when he asked if it was a bootycall, I – basically told him it was.”</p><p>Molly makes an interesting noise; it’s something between a gasp and a wheeze. “<em>Claire. Saffitz. You did </em>not<em>.”</em></p><p>Claire stares at the oregano and adobo in her hands for a long moment. “And he called me this morning –”</p><p>“<em>Claire!”</em></p><p>“- and he said if – if I call him again, and I’m sober, he’ll come over.”</p><p>There’s a long silence, and Claire’s blood pressure walks up a few ticks. “Molly?”</p><p>“<em>Yeah, yeah, sorry. I’m here. Wow, Claire.”</em></p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“<em>So what are you gonna do?”</em></p><p>“I don’t <em>know</em>.” She can hear herself whining, but she can’t help it. “I don’t <em>know</em>, Molly. This is kind of a new thing.”</p><p>“<em>Oh, I get it. You’re freaking out because you’re finally not one hundred percent in control. And now you already called him last night and asked to borrow a cup of sex –</em>”</p><p>Claire gapes. “Molly!”</p><p>“<em>What? That’s what you said. You obviously want it. And </em>he<em> said he wanted it. So why are you hesitating?”</em></p><p>Claire knows there’s a reason it’s not that simple. There has to be. There’s no <em>possible</em> way it’s that simple. She just hasn’t figured out how. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“<em>Listen to me. Shave your legs, put on your nicest underwear, and call him. Okay?”</em></p><p>Claire stares at the smoked paprika like it’s going to save her. “I – okay?”</p><p>“<em>Claire, you and Brad have been half-married, like, forever. I’ve been waiting so long for you two idiots to figure it out. He’s crazy about you. You’re crazy about him. Just go for it already.”</em></p><p>“Well – jeez.” Claire lets out a short laugh. “Nice pep talk.”</p><p>“<em>Thanks. Now go bang his brains out,”</em> Molly tells her. “<em>Live a little.”</em></p><hr/><p>Accordingly, Claire finds herself sitting on her bed in her underwear, telling herself to just <em>do</em> it already.</p><p>She’s about a minute away from cancelling everything and going to live in another country when Molly texts her: <em>have u called him yet? </em></p><p>Claire huffs. <em>I’m doing it right now</em>.</p><p>Molly’s response comes seconds later. <em>quit stalling</em>.</p><p>Well. Okay then.</p><p>Claire calls him before she can convince herself not to. To his credit, it barely rings once before he picks up. <em>“Yell-o!”</em></p><p>“Hey, Brad.”</p><p>“<em>Well, hey there, Claire.”</em> His voice is so warm, so familiar, and she immediately feels less stressed. “<em>You feelin’ better?”</em></p><p>“Much better. Thanks.”</p><p>“<em>Drank your water, huh?”</em></p><p>“Plenty of it.” She laughs. “You, uh – you want to come over?”</p><p>“<em>Hell yeah I do.</em>”</p><p>Well, that was easy. “Okay. Um – you should.”</p><p>“<em>Puttin’ on my shoes right now, Claire.”</em></p><p>“Good.” Claire takes a long look at herself in the mirror. “Hey, Brad?”</p><p>“<em>Yeah?”</em></p><p>“This is a bootycall.”</p><p>He doesn’t even hesitate. “<em>Good.”</em></p><p>“See you soon, okay?”</p><p>“<em>You got it.</em>”</p><p>She hangs up, takes a deep breath. Well. At least she knows she wasn’t on the wrong track.</p><p>Her phone buzzes; it’s him. <em>on my way, bringing wine</em></p><p>Claire huffs a soft laugh and taps out a quick response. <em>Sounds perfect</em>.</p><p>A few seconds later, her phone buzzes again. <em>so what are you wearing</em></p><p>Her cheeks get hot, and for a moment she wonders if she should send him a picture. She could. He’d probably like it. But she’s just not quite there yet.</p><p>But Brad’s got a good imagination, hasn’t he? And she’s always been good with words.</p><p>So she sends him one last text.</p><p>
  <em>Come over here and find out.</em>
</p><hr/><p>After much deliberation, Claire decides to put clothes on over her special let’s-get-laid underwear.</p><p>This isn’t the kind of thing she normally does, call Brad to come over for sex. She just doesn’t know if there’s a procedure to follow. It feels too weird to just open the door in her robe. Sure, it’s a bootycall. But she doesn’t want it to be quite so <em>obvious</em>. That’d be insulting, right? He’s a person, not a thing. He’s still a guest in her home. She’s going to make sure he knows he’s appreciated, and not just for sex. Although she <em>does</em> appreciate that he’s coming over for sex. Is she misreading everything? Should she call Molly again?</p><p>Claire is aware that she overthinks things sometimes.</p><p>So she slips on a dress (she <em>refuses</em> to admit that she’s picking it so it’s easy for him to take off), smooths her hair, puts on a little tinted lip balm, pinches her cheeks, and brushes at her eyebrows.</p><p>She opts to stay barefoot, though. She doesn’t want to seem like she’s trying too hard.</p><hr/><p>When she opens the door to see Brad Leone, it’s like everything just eases up for a moment. She may be tense and nervous and jittery and overthinking every aspect of every decision she’s made all day, but he’s smiling at her and his eyes are bright and <em>that</em> just makes everything better.</p><p>Claire lets out a long breath. “Hey.”</p><p>“Hey, Claire.”</p><p>It feels <em>normal</em>. She feels the nervous energy dissolve just a bit – if nothing else, she’s not about to retreat into her kitchen and nervous-organize her spice drawer again.</p><p>“Come on in.”</p><p>He follows her inside, easing the door shut behind him with his foot, and he pauses to toe off his sneakers before following her into her little kitchen. Her living space feels so small around him. Brad’s presence is big; his whole person is larger than life, and this apartment that feels so normal with just her suddenly feels so different and loud and bright with him here.</p><p>Brad unzips his backpack, pulling out a bottle. “So I got wine, and then I figured, y’know, you’ve got that sweet tooth, so –” he hands her the wine bottle and digs into his backpack again – “I stopped at this little bakery on the way and got this, too.”</p><p>He pulls out a small yellow-and-white bakery box, carefully opening the top, and Claire peers inside to see –</p><p>“You brought cake?”</p><p>(She might already be in love.)</p><p> “Salted caramel cake,” he explains. “Told the guy I needed the best one he had, so if you hate it, it ain’t my fault, Claire.”</p><p>“Brad, you don’t like cake.”</p><p>“But <em>you</em> do.”</p><p>At this point, she can’t stop herself.</p><p>So Claire leads him into the kitchen, sets down the wine, takes the cake box out of his hands and sets it down on the counter. And once she’s got everything in place where it should be, she’s got her hands free to tug him down to her level, and she learns what she’s long suspected: kissing Brad is absolutely dizzying.</p><p>She’s been imagining it for a long time – a lot longer than she’s willing to admit, even to herself – and somehow it’s a thousand times more overwhelming than she could have thought. Brad’s so big, he’s so strong and he’s just <em>everywhere</em>. His mouth is hot on hers, teasing and challenging, his big hands span her waist as easily as if she were just a doll, and the wave of arousal that swamps her is just – it’s too much, too fast.             </p><p>Her head is spinning, her whole body is hot, and she has to breathe. She pulls away for a moment, licking her lips, gasping.</p><p>And Brad, ever aware, just brushes his knuckles over her cheek, those bright blue eyes keen. “You okay?”</p><p>Claire blushes. “Sorry. I – um – I’m just – a little freaked out right now.”</p><p>“No worries, Half Sour.” He leans in to press a soft kiss to her cheek, more gentle, more playful than anything. “C’mon, let’s drink wine and solve the world’s problems, yeah?”</p><p>(Brad’s the <em>best</em>.)</p><hr/><p>She pours them both generous glasses and leads him to the couch, where they’ve barely sat down when Felix hops up onto Claire’s lap. He tries to nose his way into her wine glass, and she holds it away, tapping his head gently. “Hey. Hey. <em>No</em>.”</p><p>“Aww, he just wants a lil taste, Claire! Don’t you, bub?” Brad leans over to skritch the little cat’s ears, and Felix arches his back, leaning into Brad’s hand. “You wanna drink with us, Felix?”</p><p>Felix stretches, yawns, hops down from the couch, and pads off towards his food bowl.</p><p>Claire chuckles. “I guess not.”</p><p>“I like your cat,” Brad says. “He’s a cool guy. Kinda chill, does his own thing. And he ain’t unfriendly, y’know? Maybe a little reserved at first, but he’s just makin’ you work for it.”</p><p>Claire shrugs. “He’s a cat. That’s how they are.”</p><p>“Kinda like you.” Brad thinks for a minute. “Takes you a minute to warm up to someone, but then you’re all soft and cuddly. You like takin’ naps in sunshine.”</p><p>Claire wrinkles her nose. “Thanks, I guess?”</p><p>“And when you get feisty, you got claws like fuckin’ needles,” he adds with a grin.</p><p>Claire scowls at him, but there’s no energy behind it. It’s not like he’s wrong. “Same hair too, right?”</p><p>“I like your hair.” He reaches out one gentle hand, brushing a strand of black-and-white hair behind her ear with surprising tenderness that makes her catch her breath. “It’s pretty.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>He looks down at his glass. “Wine’s okay? I just grabbed one on my way over. Kind of in a hurry, y’know?”</p><p>“The wine? Yeah, very good.”</p><p>“Glad you like it.” He takes another sip and sets his glass down, leaning back against the couch cushions. “So, gotta tell you, Claire. I’m confused.”</p><p>She takes a long sip of her wine. “About what?”</p><p>“Well! You were gettin’ me all hot and bothered, huh, tellin’ me you’re wearin’ something exciting. And look at you.” He lets his gaze linger over her, and Claire feels suddenly, hotly hyperaware. “Not that you  ain’t pretty. You’re always pretty. But I seen that dress on you a hundred times.”</p><p>She takes a breath that’s only just a little bit shaky. “You haven’t seen what I’m wearing underneath it.”</p><p><em>That</em> makes him sit up a little straighter. His eyes go dark, and the way he’s looking at her – so hungry, so wanting – makes her feel like he can see straight through the dress she threw on. “Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Uh-huh.” Is that <em>her</em> voice? – all soft and breathy and positively <em>dripping</em> with sex? “I got all dressed up for you.”</p><p>“Well, in that case –” Brad leans in, and she sees him every day, how is it possible that his presence is making her feel so deliciously weak? – “Probably shouldn’t let it go to waste, huh?”</p><p>“I – I guess not –”</p><p>Before she can do more than take a breath, he plucks her wine glass out of her hand, sets it carefully on the coffee table. “Get over here, Saffitz.”</p><p>Her whole body goes hot and tight and she can’t kiss him fast enough. Brad tugs her closer, tightening his hands on her waist until she’s settled on his lap. He kisses her like he wants to do it forever, long and slow and unhurried. It’s <em>mesmerizing</em>. Kissing him takes so much concentration, like her mouth on his and her fingertips buried in his hair and her thighs pressed around his are all just pure fire, sparks blazing under her skin, and all she can do is shiver and hang on.</p><p>When he finally starts on the buttons down the front of her dress, she’s already so worked up that it takes her a moment to process what he’s doing.</p><p>“Oh, look here,” he murmurs, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to her throat. “Little sneak peek of lace under there, you tryin’ to kill me?”</p><p>“Is it working?”</p><p>“God, you’re a fuckin’ <em>danger</em>, woman, what the fuck –”</p><p>But if <em>she’s</em> dangerous, then Brad’s an absolute menace. He seems perfectly content to tease, trailing his mouth and his hands over her skin until she’s frantic, even as she can feel the heat and pressure of him between her legs.</p><p>He pulls the neckline of her dress down to get at more of her skin, trailing kisses as he goes, and Claire can’t handle it anymore. Why is she even wearing this dress?</p><p>“Just take it <em>off</em> already,” she whines.</p><p>“Aww, c’mon, Claire. Gotta take some time. Gotta let it build.” He sweeps her hair aside, nipping lightly at her earlobe, and she shivers. “Like a nice fermented kombucha. Gotta let the gases build up for that nice big reaction, yeah?”</p><p>“Oh, <em>Brad</em>.” She dissolves into giggles, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “Really smooth.”</p><p>“I’m the fuckin’ smoothest, Claire. I’m fightin’ the girls off, every day.”</p><p>“Oh my God, Brad, you – <em>oof!”</em> Claire yelps in surprise, clinging to his shoulders as he scoops her up in his arms, standing up from the couch. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“You said this was a bootycall,” he shrugs. “I’m takin’ you to bed.”</p><hr/><p>(Of <em>course</em> Claire’s bedroom is pretty and perfect and tidy. How could it be any other way?)</p><p>Brad drops her on her mattress and she lands with a little bounce, her eyes sparkling as she scrambles up to get back at him. But he’s feeling impatient, so he tugs that soft, pretty dress off her and tosses it aside, leaving her on the bed in nothing but a bra and underwear, and it’s soft, rich dark blue and it’s lacy and delicate and <em>fuck</em> it takes a second for his brain to reboot.</p><p>She’s all soft curves, pale pink and white skin, and fuckin’ <em>hell</em>, if he’d had any idea just what she was hiding under those clothes all this time –</p><p>“God, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, Claire, you’re like a fuckin’ painting, fuck <em>me</em> –”</p><p>He’s babbling, he can’t help it, his brain is shot to hell and she’s stretching up on her knees, tugging impatiently at his shirt. He yanks it up and over his head, and it’s barely hit the floor before those small, clever hands of hers are unbuckling his belt, tugging impatiently at his jeans.</p><p>If she’s not careful, it’s gonna be a fuckin’ short show, so Brad scrapes his last remaining brain cells together.</p><p>He catches her off-guard, leaning over to cover her body greedily with his, until suddenly she’s lying back beneath him.</p><p>“Not so fast, Claire,” he murmurs, pinning those slim wrists to the bed around her face. Her eyes are huge, her pupils deep and dark and blown out, her face flushed, and she’s biting her lip. “You think I’m done with you?”</p><p>“I hope not,” she breathes.</p><hr/><p>By the time she’s on her back, clutching at the sheets, gasping and whimpering as he drives her closer and closer to breaking with his talented fingers and that sensitive mouth between her legs, Claire’s long since forgotten why she was nervous about calling him in the first place.</p><hr/><p>It’s well past midnight by the time they end up settled in bed, eating cake straight out of the box.</p><p>“Y’know, I’m not exactly Mr. Cake,” Brad comments around a mouthful, “but this stuff’s pretty fuckin’ good.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.” It’s perfectly moist, the sweetness and acid of the caramel beautifully balanced with the salt. Claire’s in sugary heaven.</p><p>“<em>Hey.</em>” Brad points his fork at her. “Don’t get too excited, there. I’m gonna get jealous.”</p><p>“Hey, <em>you</em> decided to bring this over,” she shrugs. “You know I’m a dessert person. You brought your own competition.”</p><p>“Dessert person, huh?”</p><p>Claire bats his fork out of the way. “Just because you brought me something sweet –”</p><p>“You mean myself?”</p><p>“I mean sweet and edible.”</p><p>“Like I said.”</p><p>Claire groans, bumping her shoulder against his. “You’re awful.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><hr/><p>The next morning, Claire makes another important discovery: showering without Brad might be more efficient, but it’s a lot less fun than showering with him.</p><hr/><p>On Monday morning, Claire walks into the test kitchen; she’s just barely in the door when Molly appears, her eyes sparkling. “Hey, Claire.”</p><p>“Good morning.”</p><p>“Have a good weekend?”</p><p>Claire can feel herself blushing furiously, but makes herself take a demure sip of her coffee. For her pride, if nothing else. “Fine, thanks. You?”</p><p>“Fine, yeah.” Molly puts her hands on her hips. “Do anything interesting?” Her grin widens. “Or anyone?”</p><p>“<em>Molly!”</em></p><p>“What?” Molly puts her hands on her hips. “Tell me I’m wrong.”</p><p>Claire worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and finally sighs. “I can’t.”</p><p>“So? How was it?”</p><p>(She’s never going to look at his hands the same way again.)</p><p>And Molly, damn it, is staring at her like she knows exactly what Claire let Brad do to her last night on the couch. “That good, huh?”</p><p>Claire opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, the walk-in door opens behind them, and sure enough, out walks Brad with an armload of assorted cabbages. “Mornin’, ladies!”</p><p>Molly’s grin gets downright smug. “Well, well. Good morning, Brad.”</p><p>She wanders off, whisk in hand, and Brad looks down at Claire. “That was weird, yeah?”</p><p>“She knows.” Claire shrugs, even though her cheeks are still scarlet.</p><p>“Ah. Okay.” Brad hesitates. “Hey, you wanna grab dinner tonight? After work?”</p><p>She hears the real question: <em>This ain’t just a one-time thing, right? Can we do this on a regular basis now?</em></p><p>No one’s watching, so Claire stands up on her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.</p><p>“It’s a date.”</p>
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